The Fate of Oil and Bone
Personal Work - Poetry
A cautionary rhyme taught to young guidelets and seeklings about a wandering seeker astride a deadly cervabloom. One would do well to heed the signs of an approaching rider, as they or their bondmate could be swept away by him!
Clip-trot, beware o makers merry
Lest crude dark oil spread ‘cross thy path
Clip-trot calls bones, so careful tarry
Fall heralds to a broken half
Clip-trot, on eve comes music mournful
Soft singing ‘midst the loamy leaves
Clip-trot calls bones, so hurry hurry
It seeks a Guide to love and grieve
O woe betide you should he find you
His heart run black, forgot and feared
And woe betide you should he love you
You’re not the one he once held dear
Clip-trot, a Seeker comes a-riding
To heal a bond so deeply craved
Clip-trot calls bones, so hasten hiding
Lest his embrace becomes thy grave
Clip-trot
Clip-trot
Clip-trot